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"That? Seriously? You want me to wear that?"
Sherlock huffed indignantly. John was being intentionally dim and it was most frustrating. He hefted the heavy bag in his hand for emphasis.
"Yes John. I want you to wear this. It's for the case!"
John frowned, the furrows of his brows causing the most delightful lines to appear beneath his dusty blonde fringe. He definitely looked suspicious and though Sherlock knew he'd eventually give in, when John crossed his arms and met Sherlock's eyes with a steely blue gaze it was Sherlock's turn to frown.
"Why?" John asked. "Why am I wearing that? I don't expect I'll blend in with the home crowd much once I open my mouth," he added sardonically.
Sherlock was beginning to regret taking on this case. It was barely a four but the weight of the clothing in the bag reminded him of his reasons, reinforcing the advantages to be gained. He wasn't the slightest bit interested in the client's petty affairs, but this was an opportunity to dress John in something Sherlock had long desired to see him wear. Ever since the Hamish revelation it had played on his mind, the images conjured by the middle name and its associations too tempting to ignore. John was of course oblivious to this delicious torment but Sherlock was determined. He would see this through, commit the whole thing to a treasured shelf in the John wing of his mind palace and only bring it out when John wasn't around to catch him indulging himself. He pushed away a throb of longing, the wish that John would oblige not because of a dutiful commitment to the Work, but because of a romantic commitment to Sherlock. Pining while John was in the room simply would not do.
"One night. For the case. We go to the event, you play up your connections and we figure out which of the client's children stole the priceless quaich. Simple," Sherlock stated as matter-of-factly as he could. There was a brief battle fought across John's face as stubbornness and willingness to just go with Sherlock's weird requests duelled. Finally, John sighed, reaching out for the bag. He opened his mouth to ask the next obvious question but Sherlock swiftly jumped in.
"It's Watson," he hurried to assure John, "and everything you need is in the bag."
Rolling his eyes John took the bag and turned to head upstairs to change. Sherlock waited until he heard John's bedroom door close, then darted to his own bedroom to get into his best suit. The build-up was almost making his mouth water, something which could only be described a light giddiness filling his head. A swirl of anticipation, affection and that same longing warmed his chest as he pulled on his immaculate suit jacket.
Satisfied with his own appearance (the bespoke tailoring minimising his dislike for his lean frame and theatrical edges), Sherlock walked over to his chair and sat down to wait.
They were to take on a case at a ceilidh and John would be wearing a kilt.
_________
Sherlock had tipped his head back and was drawing mathematical patterns using the cracks across the ceiling as axises when he heard the clatter of John's feet in ghillie brogues descending the stairs. Abandoning artex fractal patterns, he looked up as John entered the room.
John stood in the living room, twiddling the cufflinks on the crisp white shirt and then unconsciously drew himself into an at ease pose as Sherlock felt his breath draw from him in a rush as he took in Dr John Hamish Watson in his kilt.
John looked simply stunning. The muted blues and greens of the Watson tartan made his eyes seem to glow like a dull ember, giving further warmth and radiance to his lightly tanned skin. The soft charcoal grey of the waistcoat and jacket contrasted beautifully with the white shirt and made the black bow tie at his throat stand out in sharp detail. The cut of the jacket emphasised his broad shoulders and strong chest, and when John raised a hand to brush it through his hair the sleeves bulged slightly, pulling tight across the muscles of his arms. He was devastatingly handsome, the formal Highland dress bringing all of his natural, rugged beauty into focus. For a brief moment Sherlock's brain entertained a ridiculous fantasy of getting out of his chair, walking across the room to John and kissing him soundly. Then John would catch his gaze, eyes sparkling mischievously and grinning widely, wrap his arms around Sherlock's waist and lift him with ease, throwing him over those powerful shoulders and marching straight down the hallway to the bedroom, case or no case.
"Well?"
John's amused voice cut through the 19th century romantic wanderings of Sherlock's thoughts (currently fixed on rubbing his face into the furry sporran hanging between John's legs), and Sherlock realised he'd been staring for nearly a full minute without saying anything. He swallowed slowly, blinking as John's amusement began to fade into mild concern, then leapt out of his chair to make for the door.
"You'll do," Sherlock mumbled, brushing past John and feeling a small shiver snake down his back as he noticed the Watson crest kilt pin and antler handled sgian dubh neatly tucked into John's right sock.
He didn't wait to hear John's muttered response and barrelled down the stairs to hail a cab, hoping fiercely he would survive this case without falling at John's feet like a swooning Victorian heroine.
_________
The cab ride to the ceilidh was uneventful. Sherlock was thrumming with his usual energy and John was content to let him stew, apparently lost in though himself. The ceilidh was to take place at a high-end hotel, a belated celebration of a family wedding which had taken place at the client's estate thee week prior. Lady Mackenzie had noticed a priceless heirloom had gone missing from one of the silver cabinets and had contacted Sherlock to ask that he track down which of her ungrateful brat gradnchildren (her words, not his) had nicked it. The two main suspects were Seonaid, the grand-daughter with the cocaine habit, or Callum, the grandson with the eye-watering gambling debts. Sherlock's suspicion was Callum. He had swiftly dismissed the snooty woman's theories about Rhuraidh, the youngest grandson. Despite what his grandmother might think, Rhuraidh was the only one for whom the family quaich held any importance or meaning, at least judging by his "lost! reward offered!" posts on all of his social media accounts.
Their cover story was that John was a distant relation of a distant relation, invited by Lady Mackenzie as he had been left out of the enormous celebrations up north the week before. John would mingle with the family members while Sherlock, dressed in his black shirt and suit, would blend in with the hotel staff.
The band was already set up at the back of the room and the guests were chatting and drinking, voices and glasses raised as new invitees entered. As well as the gathered family and friends, Sherlock noticed an elderly couple sitting at a table to one side, comfortably watching the assembled crowd. Occasionally one Lady Mackenzie's children would go over to them, a few words were spoken, smiles offered and they would wander away again to find friends or refill their glass.
John nudged Sherlock's arm and nodded in their direction. Good, he'd spotted them too. Before John could walk up and introduce himself though, Lady Mackenzie appeared at their side and began speaking loudly and dramatically, announcing that Dr John Watson had finally come to join them. Sherlock melted away quickly and sought out a tray of glasses, making a show of polishing them as he watched John obligingly take the woman's arm and follow her to the gathered family to be introduced.
John's firm posture and military bearing immediately made Callum nervous, Sherlock noted triumphantly. Now all that was left would be to discover where he had taken the quaich to be sold, probably a secret auction, and confront him before he could vanish into the city.
Sherlock watched his target quietly slip away from the crowd and return to propping up the bar. Ah, so he was meeting his contact here! Excellent, Sherlock could wrap up the case and whisk them both away before John captured too many hearts.
It hadn't escaped Sherlock's notice while he'd been watching Callum that several young (and one or two not so young) women had attached themselves to the group. Their shallow beauty and thin laughter might grate on Sherlock's nerves, but John was at ease with the attention, allowing them to touch his arm or stand just a little too closely. The flirting was very obvious and tremendously dull and silly. John had been given a whisky at some point and was sipping it politely as he joined the conversation. Sherlock watched in horror as Mhairi, Lady Mackenzie's highly attractive youngest daughter, leaned in close to John to whisper something in his ear. John smiled broadly and laughed, and Sherlock felt a hot twist of jealousy, anger and self-pity jab under his ribs. He turned his eyes away and tried to focus on Callum again, only to find that his suspect had disappeared.
Snorting in frustration, Sherlock clenched his hand around the thin stem of the glass he'd been pretending to polish. He nearly dropped the expensive crystal in surprise when a soft voice spoke from behind him.
"Nae like 'at, laddie, ye'll brak it," said the voice. Sherlock spun around to find the old man he'd seen earlier moving to stand beside him. A hand came up to rest on his shoulder and the old man reached out for the glass with the other.
"See, ye winna get onywhere haudin' it too close. Ye hef tae open up, let it a' oot, an' haud it gently, ken? Etherwise it's gonnae escape, be taken awa', an' ye hinna got time tae be makin' a muckle o' it. Ye ken?"
Case forgotten, Sherlock stood there frozen, struggling to understand the man's thick accent and soft voice. He frowned, trying to make sense of the words. The old man chuckled.
"Ah kent ye were fae roon aboot here, that ye dinnae bide by us when I saw ye come in, laddie. Yer nae unnerstaundin' me, are ye?"
"'Course he's nae, when yer speakin' like 'at." The old man's wife approached them, smiling and holding out her hand. Sherlock took it without really knowing why. There was a sharpness in her gaze, intriguing and intelligent. Her husband chuckled lightly.
"Agnes kens fit ah'm speakin' aboot," he said. "Ah'll nae keep ye ony longer, laddie, I jist like haen' an ear tae bend." His wife laughed and squeezed Sherlock's hand before letting it fall gently back to his side as she took her husband's arm. They turned to head back to their table, but before walking away the wife stepped back close to Sherlock and leaned up to whisper in his ear.
"Ah can see yer in lo'e, a'bdy can see it in yer een if they're jist lookin' richt. A'bdy can see it in him, an' a'. Dinnae let yer heart brak o'er oor foolish femly, and dinnae keep it tae yersel' ony mair. Tell him, tell yer mannie o'er there how ye feel. Tell him ye love him, and let him tell you too."
Sherlock could only watch, open-mouthed, as the couple headed back to their table. His heart was pounding as he deciphered their words. Was he really that obvious? Had he been staring at John too much, his eyes lingering on John's impeccable body in that lovely kilt just a bit too long? Oh God, had John noticed?
Sherlock felt panic rise up in his throat. John was still talking with the group, but the band had begun playing now and one of the women was leading John away onto the dancefloor. Seeing John relaxed and laughing, smoothly taking up the hold for the first ceilidh dance, was just too much. Sherlock walked away from the glasses and out to the corridor, trying desperately to reconcile what the elderly couple had told him with the John he had just seen.
He stayed in the darkness of the entrance to the ballroom, still processing, when he glimpsed a figure standing a short way down the corridor. They were deep in conversation, obviously on the phone, the man's voice speaking harshly in hushed tones. Callum had just called his contact then. The game would prove a good distraction from thoughts of John dancing with a beautiful woman.
Sherlock casually started down the long corridor, gaze flicking over him to take in as much information as possible. Callum didn't notice the movement in the dim light but then a light leapt brightly from an open door further down and Mhairi, the daughter who had been most over-the-top in flirting with John, rushed forward towards him. Sherlock stepped back into the shadows to listen. Their accents were both public school English, much simpler, Sherlock thought dryly.
"We have to go pick it up now," Mhairi was saying. "The old bitch is already suspicious and she'll write both of us out of the will if she finds out."
"Keep it down," hissed Callum, "Dunc is going to collect the parcel tomorrow. It's addressed to him anyway, he'll get it no problem. He'll pick it up from the post office in Hackney, then we'll repackage it and ship it off to the buyer in China." He laughed cruelly under his breath.
"She's no idea who's got it. She thinks Seonaid took it to pay for her habit. One the dear ol' gal wouldn't need if Grandmother had listened and sent her to a proper therapist when she was a teenager. She's blaming Rhuraidh for the whole thing anyway, thinks he's nicked it to pay her back for cutting him off, citing 'his disgraceful conduct at university, carrying on with that other boy!' Fucking poof deserves it, actually, I reckon."
The scheming duo were still laughing as they rejoined the party inside. Sherlock took out his phone and texted Lestrade, telling him to send officers to the Hackney post office as early as possible to apprehend a thief in possession of stolen goods. Lestrade himself was to come and make the
Glancing back at the open door to the ceilidh, which was now in full swing, Sherlock's mind turned back to the advice he'd been given earlier. He couldn't see John on the dancefloor any more, but behind his eyelids the image of a dashing Captain in a kilt would burn forevermore.
He was about to just leave when the Captain in question came into view, jacket missing, bow tie loosened, top two or three shirt buttons open. Sherlock's mind tilted and a hot flare of desperate want shot into his gut. If anything, John looked even more desirable now, his cheeks flushed with exertion and his eyes bright and full as he approached. Sherlock watched sullenly, feeling pangs of hunger and despair alternate in his chest.
John was smiling as he stopped in front of Sherlock and took hold of his arm. The heat of John's hand through his jacket and shirt spread up and into Sherlock's body, and he fought twin urges, to lean in closer to John's intoxicating warmth, and to yank his arm away lest he be burnt by hopeless, unreturned desire.
"I think it's Callum," John was speaking carefully but he was clearly pleased by what he'd found out. "He's got enormous debt, that's no secret, but he was talking earlier about his youngest brother and there's definitely no love lost there. I think he might be framing him for the theft, someone mentioned how the kid's always admired the ancient family quaich. He must have a partner though, I'm not sure who it could be."
"Mhairi," Sherlock muttered, his voice hoarser than he'd hoped. "It's Mhairi, the sister. You're right, they are framing the youngest. In addition to claiming some of the insurance money they're selling the quaich to an anonymous buyer in China, and framing the former golden boy Rhuraidh in the process. It's quite a clever scheme, actually."
John snorted, his face twisting in annoyance. "Why, though? Why frame the kid? As far I can tell, up until about two months ago everyone doted on him. Now it seems you're either in agreement with Grandmother or not."
"He's gay," Sherlock said quietly. "He apparently came out at university and his grandmother, who is still his legal guardian until he turns 18 next month, cut him off financially."
John sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair angrily. "Pity we have to give back the priceless antique then," he muttered. "If that's how she treats someone who actually cares about its return." They caught each other's eyes. Sherlock felt the thread grow taut between them and then John started back towards the ballroom.
Sherlock dithered behind him, watching, momentarily distracted by John's kilt swinging gently as he walked. A foolhardy thought occurred, that he could just reach out, touch John to stop him walking away, then....
"John! You left your jacket!" The chirpy female voice shattered the moment and Sherlock was thrown back into reality.
"Oh, er, thanks," John said, raising his hand to take the proffered jacket from the woman in the doorway. "Just leaving actually, I've got to get back to my partner." John's voice was firm but kind, and the woman glanced at Sherlock before nodding and saying goodbye.
John slung the jacket over his shoulder and patted Sherlock at the small of his back as he walked by, heading out of the hotel to greet the arriving Lestrade. Sherlock shook himself, puzzled and frustrated, before following. Might as well make the most of watching John from behind in the kilt, he was under no illusions that the thing was coming off as soon as they got back to Baker Street.
_________
Sherlock slumped into his chair, head in his heads, not bothering to toe off his shoes or hang up his coat properly. The case had been resolved, Lestrade had turned up just in time to arrest Callum and Mhairi, Lady Mackenzie had been furious. Sherlock had made a cutting remark about water under the rainbow, which caused John to splutter, coughing to cover his snort of laughter. He'd elbowed Sherlock and reminded him that it was water under the bridge, not rainbow. Sherlock merely shrugged, being just a little bit gleeful at the sight of Lady Mackenzie's bright red face as she thrust the cheque into John's hand and stormed away. The old couple were nowhere to be seen, and a small part of Sherlock was disappointed. If he hadn't seen others talking to the couple he'd be wondering if he hadn't imagined the entire exchange.
He was contemplating their advice for what felt like the millionth time when a pair of ghillie brogues came into view at his feet. He lifted his head and saw John looking down at him, an odd mixture of wonder, tenderness and apprehension on his face. John sucked in a deep breath and, ever so softly, spoke.
"Ah saw them too, an' ah'm guessin' I got the same advice as you. Tell him, laddie. Tell him how yer in lo'e wi him, dinnae keep it tae yersel' ony mair."
Sherlock's eyes went wide as saucers as he stared up at John. John, who was only tangentially Scottish at best, speaking to him in that voice. That soft, lilting accent, drifting in through Sherlock's ears and warming him to his bones.
"So, if ye'll listen, ah'll tell ye," John continued, his hand stroking Sherlock's hair and down to his face, thumb tracing lightly over one cheekbone. Sherlock was mesmerised, his mouth gone dry, lips parted, heart thumping fiercely against his ribs.
"Ah'm a lo'e wi ye, Sherlock. Have been an affy lang while. Didnae see it back fir me til I pit oan a kilt, mind, but there wis nae mistakin' it once ah kent it wis there."
John brought his other hand up to cradle Sherlock's face. "So, fit's we tae dae noo?"
Gripping the arms of his chair, Sherlock felt himself trembling as John, his eyes sliding shut, closed the distance between them. Sherlock's own eyes closed and he felt as though his body was being pulled towards John on a string.
John pressed his lips to Sherlock's in a tender, delicate kiss.
At first Sherlock was too shocked to move, but then he felt his mind let go, open up and let John tell him that he loved him. Then Sherlock's entire world became suspended in that instant. There was no sound, no silence, no light, no dark, nothing except John as they kissed. And it was perfect.
Finally, John pulled back, and Sherlock opened his eyes, suddenly dreading that this had all been a dream. John still stood before him, shirt undone those top two buttons, kilt brushing against Sherlock's suit-clad knees. The tassels on the sporran knocked faintly against the front of it as John straightened up. The rush of cold air on Sherlock's face as John dropped his hands stung and he risked a look up to see if John was regretting it already.
There was nothing on John's face except love. Pure, boundless, fierce love poured from John's smile. Sherlock felt as though he were wilting like a summer flower, overwhelmed by sunshine's warmth. He tentatively lifted a hand and John immediately met it with his own.
"I won't attempt the accent John, but you should know," Sherlock started hesitantly. John laughed and though the warmth remained, a cheeky grin quickly replaced the fond smile.
"I should know what? That you love me? I do Sherlock, I truly do know," John said.
"You know? How did you.... oh, the couple spoke to you as well? Who the hell were they?!" Sherlock's curiosity briefly overtook him and he stood swiftly, causing John to take a step backwards. He almost started pacing the floor but John's proximity rapidly stopped all thoughts of how they'd gotten here. The important thing was that they had. And now, well now he was standing. And John had a look in his eye, a look that had probably gotten him into trouble more than a few times.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "So, as you said, fit's we tae dae noo?" John cackled raucously at Sherlock's appalling attempt at the accent.
"Ah'm of a mind to birl ye roon, tak ye awa' tae bed an' ravish ye til dawn," John drawled.
"That," Sherlock said instantly. "I want you to do that, while wearing that."
"Nae bather," John replied, winking. As John hoisted him over his shoulder and set off towards the bedroom, humming Flower of Scotland badly, Sherlock thought how he'd been wrong. Well, partly wrong. The kilt was staying at Baker Street. But it was most definitely coming off.